


À L'Envers

by kishafisha



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Inspired by Art, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishafisha/pseuds/kishafisha
Summary: A series of vignettes in the life of Special Agent Hannibal Lecter and his psychiatrist, Doctor William Graham.Inspired by the art ofreapersun.





	À L'Envers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



> As a general disclaimer, this is all [reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/)'s fault. I didn't even know about Hannibal before I got sucked through glorious fanart. I wasn't really planning on writing about it until [THIS](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/172147750597/support-me-on-patreon-a-patron-requested) and [a NSFW gem you need to log into Tumblr to see](https://rednoonsun.tumblr.com/post/174664300760/support-me-on-patreon-a-patron-requested). And then to make it worse, I requested [THIS](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/tagged/role%20reversal). So unfair, how was I supposed to be strong and just write the things I already had going?
> 
> This is a role reversal that only loosely follows events in Season One, but I've tried to imagine it as though the characters are the same people...just born out of different circumstances. The main exception to this is that Will IS older than Hannibal, because he's a doctor and that takes time. If anyone wants to know the full extent of the swappage, let me know in the comments or on [Tumblr](http://kishafisha.tumblr.com/) and I will lay it all out for you. Because I've thought about this WAY too much for the past couple months.
> 
> I have a second part outlined, because I'm helpless to fight my brain once it has an idea in place, but I don't know if I'll go any further than that. Like I said...I go where the ideas take me.
> 
> EDIT 08JUL: Huge thanks to [matildaparacosm](https://matildaparacosm.tumblr.com) for reccing me for Fresh Meat Friday! Which I didn't know was a thing.

“Did you just smell me?”

Hannibal’s soft, accented voice wasn’t accusatory, merely curious as he inclined his head to where Will stood at his shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of him. Will, for his part, lifted his head to regard him thoughtfully, his pale eyes looking through Hannibal in that maddening way of his.

“Difficult to avoid. Didn’t think a man of your means would shell out for that brand,” Will observed and took pleasure from the small tightening of Hannibal’s jaw. That tiny gesture was a tell he had first noticed very early on in their conversations, a visceral reaction to rudeness. It was hardly a deterrent.

“I’m surprised that you recognize it, Doctor Graham. Despite being a man of _your_ means, you seem to have an unfortunate affinity toward scents with a ship on the bottle,” Hannibal replied, his eyebrow raised in challenge.

Will smiled in answer, but his eyes were flat and hard. “Sometimes a memory has more value than a bottle, Hannibal.”

Turning to face Will more fully, Hannibal searched his face for a moment. “Your father,” he guessed and Will’s smile sharpened.

“A man with far fewer means than a Special Agent,” Will affirmed, a faintly bitter edge to his tone.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hannibal told him and Will was curious to notice that there was a note of raw honesty there. “How old were you when it happened?”

“Are you analyzing _me_ now?” Will wondered archly.

“I thought we were simply having conversations,” Hannibal offered, his mouth curving in a faint suggestion of a smile.

With a wry chuckle, Will returned to his usual chair and sank into it, hardly able to argue the point. “Not old enough,” he conceded, gesturing for Hannibal to rejoin him. “One night he tossed some college kids out of a bar when they’d taken to harassing the bartender. They caught him by surprise on his way home.” He rubbed at his forehead as though he could soothe away the gnawing ache in his head that way, remembering the long nights he’d spent haunted by the _thoughtlessness_ of his father’s death. The complete lack of artistry or meaning. “A good man beaten to death to soothe the wounded ego of misspent youth.”

“Is that what turned you toward psychoanalysis?” Hannibal wondered, reclaiming his own chair.

“Initially I considered law enforcement, actually. My mother felt that would be beneath me.” Will gestured at his office, which spoke of understated wealth much like the man himself. “ _She_ was a lady of significant means.”

“Was?”

“Was,” Will confirmed blankly, remembering the way the life had left her eyes as she’d choked on her dinner. It would have been easy to save her such an undignified death, but he had simply watched, abandoning her to her fate as she had once done to father and child. “Who did you lose, Hannibal?”

Hannibal hesitated a moment, smoothing a hand down the thigh of the department store suit he’d so carefully tailored, remembering how Mischa had once teased him for his narcissism. He had mentioned her briefly to Will in the past, but never discussed her loss openly. Every time he brought her to mind was fresh salt in the wound, a dark hunger unsatisfied.

“I was orphaned from a young age, my sister younger still. For years I raised her as our estate was stripped away, until I was old enough to take what little was left and immigrated here. I devoted myself to making as good a life for us as I could manage, taking what work I could find.” Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, Hannibal laced his fingers. “Mischa was kidnapped on her way home from school when she was sixteen. The final victim of the Delphi Killer.”

That surprised Will, a sensation he was fairly unaccustomed to these days, but not wholly unpleasant in and of itself. He had guessed that Mischa had been murdered when Hannibal had spoken of her previously, but this was not what he’d expected to hear. “Her death led you to forensic psychology, to the Bureau,” he surmised. “You wouldn’t have been eligible to become an agent with your citizenship, but you could train them to do better. To work _faster_.”

Hannibal inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I had flirted with the idea of trying to put myself through medical school while Mischa still lived, but afterward the idea held little appeal. There was no outlet for what it was I felt, no relief.”

“How did you react when they found the body of the Delphi Killer?” Will asked and was not disappointed when he saw the hunger lingering behind the person suit that Hannibal wore so well. The _rage_ at the indignity.

“I wanted to kill him. And I wanted to kill whoever had robbed me of the opportunity,” he said frankly.

Will felt a thrill at his words and propped an elbow onto the arm of his chair, brushing a finger back and forth over his lip simply for the sake of sensation. “How would you have killed him, Hannibal?”

“Slowly,” Hannibal said like a promise. “I would have carved the heart out of him, as he had done to me.”

“A trophy?”

The dark thing that lurked behind Hannibal’s eyes paced, a beast in a cage. “An entrée.”

Elliot Budish had already begun to cut into his flesh when Will stepped into the barn, panting and grunting with the effort to carve wings from his back. He stopped when he saw Will and staggered, holding out the knife between them. Raising an eyebrow, Will looked at the knife almost curiously until Budish finally lowered it, considering him with eyes glazed by the pain he’d enacted on his own person.

“I see what you are,” he rasped out, swaying a little on his feet.

“What do you see?” Will wondered in a whisper, though in reading the Angel Maker now, he thought he already knew. Budish could see the fire in his brain made manifest, burning through his skull, wreathing him in flame and darkness.

“Inside,” he said hoarsely. “I can bring it out of you.”

Smiling slightly, Will shook his head and moved slowly toward the bleeding man. “Not all the way out.”

“I can give you the majesty of true becoming,” Budish insisted weakly, flinching back at Will’s approach.

“I’m not here for my becoming, Elliot,” Will corrected him almost gently. “I’ve come to witness yours.” He held out his hand for the knife and watched as Budish tightened his grip on the handle, as though debating whether or not to use it against him. “I understand what it’s like to feel as though your brain has been _weaponized_ against you, to want _peace_. This death, this _evolution_ is still your choice…but I can help you, if you let me.”

Budish stared at Will with such turmoil that he thought for a moment the man might be too far gone to the tumor ravaging his mind to even comprehend what was being offered. Then he relaxed his grip on the knife and sagged to his knees as though his strings had been cut, relief bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please,” he gasped like a prayer.

His reverential expression not unfamiliar to Will, used the look of one who felt as though they had been _seen_ for perhaps the first time in their lives. Most of Will’s victims bore that mien even unto death. He hoped that it remained when Hannibal and Phyllis would inevitably find Budish in the rafters hours or days from now, the product of his design.

“The Copycat Killer,” Hannibal began and brought up his first slide. “For some time his work was believed to indeed belong to that of mere copycats, penning their dark admiration to killers in blood and viscera. But in his work, a pattern became apparent, one that removes his effort from that of amateur adulation.” The slides slid past, casting colors of carnage over Hannibal’s skin and from the darkness of the alcove where he skulked, Will smiled. “The Copycat Killer does not merely mimic the work of other serial killers, he _elevates_ it. Gives it artistry where it was lacking. In nearly every case, the victim was positively identified to _be_ the killer whose work he took such care to not simply mimic, but uplift.”

The slide changed to the official FBI portrait of a dark-haired young woman with wide, blue eyes and Will felt a brief pang of regret to hear Hannibal say, “An FBI trainee named Abigail Hobbs was investigating an unknown lead on the Copycat Killer when she disappeared and is believed to be one of his only ‘innocent’ victims. Following her disappearance, no trace of her was found until recently, when a severed ear was discovered. Perhaps as an admission of guilt after two long years…or the admittance of a flaw in his design.”

It was partially correct, but while Will certainly bore the burden of the young woman’s death on his conscience, Abigail Hobbs hadn’t died by his hand.

”Some would suggest that his true design is arrogance, proof that he is far more skilled in catching his quarry than the FBI. Others might call this man a vigilante.” A brief murmur shivered through the trainees at this, but Hannibal held up his hand to forestall them. “I, however, do not subscribe to these theories,” he assured them and turned to look up at the latest slide.

Will easily recognized the Delphi Killer, remembered the hours spent showing the man that if he truly wanted communion with the gods, he would have to become his own oracle. He’d taken his eyes first to clarify his sight and the man had actually smiled with such raw _release_. It was impossible to tell what his expression might have been by the time Will had taken the rest of his face.

Hannibal stared up at the slide for a long time and Will knew that he was thinking of his sister as he did; how Mischa would have died in much the same pose, crowned in laurels and sat upon a tripod over a burning, noxious gas, hands bound at the wrist, raised in supplication. Only Mischa’s hands had been empty where the Delphi Killer instead held the ruin of his face, an offering of the mask he’d worn in life. All but his ears…Will’s dogs enjoyed the occasional pig’s ear.

“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish…” Hannibal spoke finally, turning back to the classroom. He caught sight of Will watching from the shadows this time and their eyes held. “The only question then is if this instructor of death, this _fisherman_ is using the killers in his demonstrations, who is it that he’s trying to teach?”

For a moment, Will imagined that he saw a dark beast with a crown of antlers, bathed in the colors of his design and so terrible and lovely that his teeth ached. ‘ _Who indeed.’_

“Doctor Graham,” Hannibal greeted him once his lecture finished and the trainees had departed. “I’m surprised to see you here. Are you having second thoughts on foregoing a career in law enforcement?”

“It’s certainly worth considering,” Will replied with a sardonic smile, his bespoke jacket folded carelessly over his arm in a way he knew would fester. “Phyllis wished to discuss Doctor Du Maurier before she made her final report. I thought I might stop by and see you in your element so long as I was here.”

“Ah, our so-called Copycat Killer, should Doctor Verger have his way. Doctor Du Maruier is an interesting woman, but it’s clear that her crimes are born of passion. She lacks the subtlety, the…empathy, if you will, to be such a killer.” Hannibal’s eyes caught briefly on the jacket before they found Will’s again. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”

“You certainly know how to command attention from a room,” Will said admiringly. “Though I can’t help but feel you’d be better suited to more intimate dialog than you are to teaching.”

“Concerned for your job security, Doctor Graham?” Hannibal asked in amusement.

“You’re welcome to it,” Will said with a wry smile. “I’d rather be fishing.”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever had the pleasure, myself. Perhaps you could teach me,” Hannibal mused, his lips curving. “Would you care to join me for lunch? I’ve a new recipe and would be glad of a second opinion.”

“So long as it isn’t any trouble.”

“Not at all. I always bring enough for two.”

“The sky reddens and William Graham darkens my doorstep. Business or pleasure?”

“When I come to kill you, I won’t be ringing the bell, Abel,” Will assured him, stepping through the door as his former psychiatrist held it open to him.

“Business then. Such a pity. You did, of course, receive the notice that I am _retired_. I gave you an excellent referral,” Gideon remarked in amusement.

“I don’t want another psychiatrist. No one else can treat me in quite the same capacity,” Will said sarcastically. “For now.”

“For now,” Gideon agreed with a chuckle. “At least until your conscience gets the better of you. I’ll pour us a drink.”

“It isn’t a matter of conscience, Abel,” Will corrected him as he followed Gideon to his sitting room.

Gideon hummed thoughtfully as he poured them each a finger of bourbon from his decanter. “Isn’t it, though? You’ve made quite a career out of ensuring that bad things happen to bad people.”

“I won’t pretend that I don’t find satisfaction in it, that killing them doesn’t feel _just,_ but I’m not some vigilante out there righting wrongs. Killing is ugly business…yet I can’t help but want to bring beauty to it. I don’t think they’ve named a diagnosis for me, yet,” Will mused, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “But you’re tied too closely to me at this point. It would inconvenience me to kill you.”

Though Will had suspected upon their first meeting that he would have to kill Abel Gideon someday, the man had sealed his fate when he’d murdered Abigail Hobbs two years ago. He still didn’t know what trail the FBI trainee had followed to his psychiatrist’s doorstep, nor did Phyllis, to her immense frustration, but it had gotten Hobbs killed. Gideon had seemed to think that Will would be grateful to have been saved the moral dilemma of killing her himself when he’s presented her body at their next session…and in all honesty, Will had his doubts even now that a part of himself _wasn’t_ grateful. Will had always imagined that he wouldn’t kill the innocent just to keep living as he was, but he wasn’t wholly certain that he would maintain that conviction in the face of discovery.

“Here’s to inconvenience, then,” Gideon commented blandly and drew Will out of his thoughts as he handed him the glass of bourbon, taking up the chair opposite him. “You seem in better spirits than usual. Preparing to right another wrong?”

Will took a slow sip of the bourbon and spared a moment to appreciate the burn, hissing softly in satisfaction. “Not exactly. I’ve…met someone.”

“Is that what this is? Why, my dear Will…are you aglow with the first blush of love?”

“If you could call it that,” Will drawled. “He’s a sort-of patient of mine.”

“How scandalous. But then, I suppose you’ve already proven yourself comfortable with unethical doctor-patient relationships.” Gideon raised his glass in a mock toast and took a drink, rolling it over his tongue before he swallowed. “Tell me about him. This man who has turned your head.”

“I thought at first that he was just an intelligent psychopath,” Will admitted, tapping a finger lightly against his glass in thought. “A sadist who had learned to hide so well that he was hidden even from himself. But there’s so much more going on behind his eyes. A darkness that I can’t seem to help but find...compelling. I doubt they’ve thought up a diagnosis for him, either.”

“Sounds more like one of your victims than a companion. I almost wonder if I should be jealous of this new man in your life,” Gideon mocked, but there was a glint of truth in his gaze.

Sighing, Will let his head fall back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “When I look at him, it’s like watching a tiger pace behind bars. I can’t help but want to lure it out and see it thrive as nature intended.”

“And yet you’ve spent so many years culling the tigers to defend the herd. If you free your beast, how long would it be before you’d add him to your list of inconveniences?”

Will closed his eyes and sighed, thinking on the satisfaction he might find in enticing out the dark, horned creature he’d imagined, then watching it die by his hand. “That is the question,” he agreed softly.

“I wish I weren’t so neurotic!” Jimmy moaned into his hand, sniffing loudly in a way that had Will gritting his teeth.

Will passed him the box of tissues that he really ought to have put within his patient’s reach to begin with. “It’s possible you just need a healthy outlet to focus your neurosis upon, Jimmy. Giving our perceived imperfections purpose can be cathartic,” he said tiredly, barely withholding the sigh that lingered in his throat. He never bothered to try and empathize with Jimmy Price anymore…holding up a mirror to the man did little to assuage his internal strife; likely a consequence of having grown up in the shadow of his identical twin.

“Easy for you to say, Doctor Graham…just look at you,” he despaired, waving a hand at Will in his entirety, longing evident in his watery gaze. “I would kill for the curls alone.”

“Would you?” Will wondered curiously, then sat forward as Jimmy looked taken aback. “Be careful not to make _me_ your outlet, Jimmy.”

“You can’t understand what it’s like, you have _so much_ going for you and I… I like the time I get to spend with you.”

“Time that you pay for,” Will reminded him.

Jimmy winced and sniffed again, shaking his head. “That makes you sound like a whore.”

“I am your psychiatrist, Jimmy,” Will said through his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Our relationship is not, and will never be, personal.”

Flushing a ruddy hue, Jimmy ducked his head slightly. “I know I haven’t got much to offer, my brother reminds me of that whenever I’m unlucky enough to cross his path, but…I’d be a great friend, Doctor Graham,” he said with quiet insistence. “Listen, do you like the opera? There’s this great mezzo soprano coming to town next month…”

Will opened his mouth to refuse him automatically, then paused thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair. An image rose in his mind of Hannibal in black tie, a shark moving through a sea of socialites, and felt his lips curve unbidden to a smile.

“Doctor Graham,” Hannibal greeted warmly as he opened the door to his Alexandria townhome, gesturing him inside. “Right on time. I hope that parking was not too much trouble.”

“Evening, Hannibal,” Will replied in kind, hefting the grocery bag in his hand as he stepped inside. “After working in Baltimore the last five years, I’m hardly phased by the Washington metropolitan area.” He held up the bag questioningly. “Where should I put this?”

“The kitchen is just upstairs. Please,” Hannibal said and waited for Will to precede him up to the second floor.

The townhome was taller and deeper than it was wide, like many in the area, and it was obvious to Will that Hannibal had spent a great deal of time carefully remodeling his home to look more luxurious than it was. He highly doubted that Hannibal’s adjoining neighbors had pristinely white crown molding over walls of rich cobalt; the floors sanded and stained and polished to a warm glow beneath their footfall. The second floor had likely once been an open floor plan between the kitchen and dining area, but Hannibal had deliberately walled them off, committing each half to its purpose.

Stepping into the kitchen, Will set the grocery bag upon the steel countertop and looked around curiously. It was clear that rather than relying on clever tricks, Hannibal had invested quite a bit into the belly of his home. His host seemed pleased to see Will’s obvious interest in the space and came to stand beside him.

“It was truly unnecessary for you to have brought all this, Doctor Graham.”

“Will,” he corrected with a small smile and pulled a bottle of wine from the bag.

“Will,” Hannibal repeated, inclining his head. “I would have been more than happy to provide for our meal.”

“It’s the least I can offer for your talents, Hannibal,” Will assured him and withdrew a wrapped parcel, sliding it across the counter. “I provide the ingredients, you tell me what we should do with them.”

Hannibal raised an amused brow, but unwrapped the parcel to see what Will had brought him. The other rose to meet its mate when he revealed the heart, looking at the organ for a long moment before glancing up at Will.

“Lamb?” he guessed and Will inclined his head.

“I hope you won’t find it too morbid of me. After our talk of family, I thought perhaps it might be cathartic.”

It was true for both of them, though Hannibal wouldn’t realize it. Already Will felt a kind of peace to see Hannibal run his thumb over a vein of the heart that had once beat in the chest of his father’s killer. He had spent most of his life slowly culling them, but had deliberately saved this man for last, the ringleader of the group. Lucky for their meal, the man had lived in Delaware, only a few short hours from Will’s office.

“You’d like me to prepare a meal I might have made of Mischa’s killer,” Hannibal said softly, his eyes shadowed.

“So long as you don’t mind sharing it with me,” Will replied, never breaking his gaze.

After a prolonged moment, Hannibal nodded and looked down at the heart again, his expression turning thoughtful. “I’ll make you kibbeh nayeh,” he decided after a moment. “A Lebanese dish that should pair well with the Syrah you’ve brought us.”

“What can I do?” Will wondered, watching as Hannibal picked up the heart and took it to the sink to wash it carefully.

“Pour the wine,” Hannibal told him with a smile.

Watching Hannibal move in the kitchen was like a performance, practiced and sinuous. It was a more beautiful end than their dinner deserved, but Will appreciated it all the same, letting his eyes follow the man unabashedly through the process.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he wondered as he watched Hannibal plate their meal.

“Like many hobbyists, I admit that I learned from books and television programs.”

Will smiled a little to imagine Hannibal watching Julia Child, then grinned more broadly thinking that for all his self-imposed refinement, he might secretly be studying haute cuisine on _YouTube_. Looking up to catch Will’s laughing expression, Hannibal’s jaw tightened slightly and he slid into his dinner jacket before picking up their plates.

“Shall we move to the dining room?”

The table was adorned with a curious centerpiece of bones and flowers that kept Will’s delight in the foreground to picture Hannibal stalking through craft stores to purpose his gothic décor. He tried not to display his pleasure too openly, for Hannibal laid out their meal with such care that the whole effect was admittedly striking. Will thanked him quietly once he had taken his seat, picking up his fork to lift the first bite to his mouth.

For years, Will had been taking trophies from his kills in a mimicry of his victim’s design, rather than for any personal proclivity. In nearly every case, these were then fed to his dogs. Until meeting Hannibal, he had never even considered this possibility, yet he’d procured the meat tonight for this very specific purpose. He had to close his eyes at the swell of emotion that washed over him, so strong that he almost couldn’t taste his meal. The rush of satisfaction, of _power_ was so heady that Will almost confessed to Hannibal right then, to ensure that he would share in this same moment. Instead, he opened his eyes slowly to see Hannibal watching him and smiled.

“This meat has an interesting flavor,” Hannibal commented thoughtfully from across the table.

Will took a slow sip of wine, savoring it briefly before he replied. “My palate isn’t as refined as yours.”

“This animal tastes frightened,” he clarified.

Raising an eyebrow, Will gave him an amused look. “What does ‘frightened’ taste like?”

“It’s acidic,” Hannibal explained. “Not unpleasant, but there are distinct notes of citrus. You should consider employing an ethical butcher. Apart from humane considerations, it’s more flavorful for animals to be stress-free prior to slaughter.”

“I’ll remember that,” Will said and took another bite, trying to detect the same subtleties in flavor that came so easily to Hannibal.

He paused in the act of chewing when a sudden, demanding yowl sounded from the floor below them. Hannibal’s face went utterly blank and he continued to eat as though he hadn’t heard anything and Will stared at him incredulously.

“Hannibal.”

“Hm?” he inquired politely, sipping at his wine.

“Was that a cat?”

“No,” Hannibal denied, even as the telltale sound came again.

Setting down his fork, Will grinned at him. “You have a _cat_ ,” he insisted and pushed back in his chair.

Looking highly displeased by the distraction to their meal, Hannibal’s brow furrowed unhappily. “I assuredly do _not_ have a cat,” he protested, but Will was already moving back toward the stairs. “Will.”

Disregarding the note of warning in his tone, Will determinedly headed back down the stairs, listening closely for the animal. Encouraged by the sound of movement, the cat meowed excitedly and he traced it to a closed bedroom door. Hearing Hannibal descending the landing, Will tested the knob and was gratified to find the door unlocked, pushing it open.

The room had been divided off into two sections, the first being a sewing area cordoned off carefully with plastic sheeting that had to be where Hannibal tailored his clothing, given the suit jacket currently adorning a dress form standing in the corner. The second half was a carefully crafted labyrinth of shelving clearly intended to keep the room’s occupant sufficiently distracted from forcing entry into the sewing area or destroying the numerous books that adorned the shelves. Will was immediately set upon by said occupant, who charged toward the opening, only to fall into a hesitant crouch at the presence of a stranger.

The cat was a bluish grey with luminous pale-green eyes, short-haired and trim and collared by a slim band of leather with a small silver tag. Squatting low, Will held out a hand and waited, letting the cat sniff at him cautiously before it deemed him acceptable stepped forward to rub its head firmly against the drag of his fingers. Hearing Hannibal at his back, Will grinned up at him, as pleased by the discovery as he was by the _opportunity_.

“You’ll get hair on your suit,” Hannibal complained in resignation.

Scooping the cat up into his arms, his smile broadened as he straightened, cradling the animal against his chest and drawing out a loud, rumbling purr. “You have a cat,” he said again in satisfaction and Hannibal sighed.

“ _Mischa_ had a cat,” he corrected firmly. “She brought him home against my wishes a few months before…” He trailed off and Will nodded in understanding.

“I can’t believe you never mentioned him,” Will chided, relaxing in a way he always did in the presence of animals. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one. I wouldn’t allow her to name him, as I had no intention of letting her keep him.”

Raising an eyebrow, Will’s fingers found the tag and he read out, “Katinas.”

Hannibal sighed, pushing his hands into his pockets. “It means tomcat.”

Will chuckled at that, shaking his head in amusement. “Mischa was just as stubborn as you, it seems.”

He set Katinas down before the cat could grow restless in his arms, stepping back smoothly to shut the animal in the room once more. It left him standing too close to Hannibal, but neither of them moved to increase the distance between them.

“You’re giving me a key,” Will told him frankly and Hannibal raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at his lips.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” Will assured him. “So that I can look after _your cat_ the next time Phyllis has you traveling out of state.”

“Cats can look after themselves,” Hannibal pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t require affection, Hannibal,” he admonished. “You’re giving me a key.”

“As you wish,” he conceded and Will smiled in answer as his design started to take shape.

Hannibal had only to glance at the crime scene to know that Phyllis had brought him here needlessly and felt a pulse of annoyance that she’d so clearly wasted his time. “It’s not the Copycat,” he stated, giving her a look.

“There are too many similarities,” Phyllis stressed, gesturing at the body in the tub with a sharpness unlike her usual calm façade.

“There aren’t enough,” Hannibal countered with a frown and regarded her closely. “You mustn’t let the Copycat stir you up, Phyllis.”

She gave him a severe look at that, her full lips pressing together in a tight frown before she spoke again. “He left me an _ear_ , Hannibal. Why not the rest of her?”

“He was probably impressed that she was able to find him,” Hannibal guessed, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“His other victims have always been put on display, just like this one,” she insisted stubbornly, but some of the fire had gone out of her.

“This isn’t a display. This is a mistake,” he dismissed, shaking his head.

“Yours?” Freddie quipped scathingly as she shone a light around the bathroom walls, looking for fibers.

Hannibal ignored the flame-haired CSI in favor of pointing at the body, keeping his attention on Phyllis. “Surgery was performed, poorly, and then the victim attempted to pull open his own sutures. Likely he was disoriented from an improper dosage of anesthetic and panicked upon waking from deep sedation.”

“Surgery wasn’t performed here,” Tobias said quietly, crouching down to snap a photo at a bit of viscera on the tiled floor. “There would be a lot more blood.”

“If he’s moving his victims, he could be performing the mutilations in the same transport,” Franklyn supplied helpfully. “Find the car, find the Copycat.”

“It’s not the Copycat,” Hannibal said again, giving the robust CSI a disapproving look. Franklyn, who rather idolized Hannibal, flushed and quickly returned to where he’d been lifting fingerprints from the sink.

“Are you sure?” Phyllis asked him, resignation in her tone.

“Yes.”

“Tell me why you’re sure.”

Though Hannibal didn’t care much for the three CSI that made up her team, he had a measure of respect and admiration for Phyllis. Enough that he forgave her for her reluctance in taking him at his word this time. “There’s no artistry to this, no design. This is something more akin to urban legend than a lesson to becoming,” he explained. “This is a medical student or a trainee or someone attempting to earn extra income in back alley surgery.” Nodding toward the tub, he added, “It appears to have gone wrong.”

Phyllis cursed under her breath, her composure wavering as she rubbed at her forehead tiredly. Stepping close to her, Hannibal said gently, “You’ll catch the Copycat eventually.”

“I want to catch him _now_ ,” she said firmly. “While I still…” Phyllis looked away from him, letting her words die away.

Regarding her closely, Hannibal noted that she had lost weight, something he’d previously thought to be the symptom of stress in the wake of Dr. Verger’s false claims of having the Copycat Killer in his tender care. He remembered suddenly how he’d noticed a change in her scent some weeks back when he’d prepared dinner for her and her husband, Garrett. Glancing up at him, Phyllis must have seen the pieces coming together in his mind, because she nodded toward the door and then walked out of the crime scene and away from prying eyes.

Following her, Hannibal waited until they would not be overheard before he said quietly, “You’re ill.”

“I’m _dying_ ,” she corrected him, her chin lifted stubbornly in the face of her fate.

“Cancer?” he guessed.

“Stage IV Leukemia,” she confirmed and he nodded in acknowledgement to her fate, though she wryly added, “We both know there’s no Stage V.”

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly, because he genuinely considered Phyllis to be a friend and that was a rare enough thing. “If the Bureau finds out-“

“The Bureau _won’t_ find out,” Phyllis said firmly. “Not if I can help it. Not before I catch the monster that murdered Abigail Hobbs.” She gave him a hard look, as though waiting for him to betray her.

Instead, Hannibal simply nodded in acceptance of her choice, for he hardly spared any loyalty to the Bureau that had failed him so entirely in the past. In truth, once Phyllis was gone, he had a hard time imagining himself able to continue on in the field, working alongside Freddie, Franklyn and Tobias. He thought about what it was he wanted from his life now that he could see the end of his career with the BAU in the shadow of Phyllis’ death. Hannibal was surprised to find that Will was the first thing to come to mind, but supposed that he shouldn’t be. Perhaps, when the time came, he would finally learn how to fish.

“I suppose we had better work quickly then,” he said to her like a promise and she gave him a relieved, determined smile, nodding once in thanks.

“Yes. Let’s get the bastard.”

“You want to dress me?”

“I did promise to make all the arrangements,” Will reminded Hannibal with a vaguely amused look, pulling several different shirts out of his wide closet.

He had surprised the man earlier in the week by inviting him to the opera, assuring Hannibal that he had only to join him at his Baltimore home and trust that Will would see to the rest. Like many socialites of the area, Will had multiple properties and used his Baltimore home primarily for those nights when he did not feel at all inclined to sit through the swamp of traffic back to Wolf Trap. It was a utilitarian sort of place, impersonal as his feelings toward it, but his closet had seen an influx as of late.

“Take all that off and let’s see whether these will fit,” he instructed, gesturing at the suit Hannibal wore, clearly one of the best he had to offer, despite Will’s assurances that he needn’t concern himself. Will knew full well that the items he had purchased would fit Hannibal, of course…Will had them made expressly for the Special Agent after taking a copy of the measurements he’d found in Hannibal’s sewing room.

Hannibal hesitated, his eyes roaming over the items Will was pulling from the closet with something very near hunger. “Where should I change?”

Raising an eyebrow, Will considered him. “Why, Hannibal…I hadn’t thought that someone who openly admits to their narcissism would also be so modest.”

Lips slightly pursed at the challenge underlying Will’s words, Hannibal slid out of his jacket and reached past his psychiatrist to claim an empty hanger for it. “I merely did not wish to presume.”

Watching Hannibal hang the garment in his closet, followed in short order by his waistcoat, and then bend to remove his shoes sent a possessive thrill through Will, heat pooling in a low, wanting burn. “I am trying to dress you for the opera…there’s plenty of room for presumption there,” he said with a slow smile, watching as Hannibal undid his top button and loosened his tie.

Hands pausing on the silk garment, Hannibal’s eyes sought out Will’s and they silently regarded one another, each reading into the subtle tells and micro expressions in their own way. Their relationship had been slowly changing shape ever since Phyllis had first brought them together on the Minnesota Shrike case, but this…this would alter it irrevocably. Will wet his lips and when Hannibal’s eyes followed the slight movement he knew he had him. Stepping into his space, Will trailed his fingertips lightly over the buttons on his shirt and Hannibal lowered his arms to his side, waiting to see what Will would do.

Ignoring the tie that was still only partially undone about his neck, Will undid a few of the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, lingering briefly over the button of bone he himself had sewn onto this particular garment. Hannibal’s hands came forward slightly, as though to touch Will in return, but he gave the agent a sharp look and they fell back to his sides. Leaving Hannibal’s shirt partially undone, Will watched his face as his hands trailed down to thumb the button at his waistband in reward for the obedience to his unspoken command. Ghosting his fingers along the fly, Will was pleased to find that his attentions had already sparked a growth in him, firming further beneath the tease of his hand.

Opening his trousers, Will pushed them over his hips without breaking eye contact, letting them pool carelessly on the floor at Hannibal’s ankles with an amused tilt of challenge to his brow. Hannibal’s jaw tightened slightly in irritation at the careless disregard for his clothing, but made no protest as he waited. Smirking slightly, Will let his eyes trail over him, then raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw that Hannibal wore no undergarments. Instead his thighs were ringed in broad bands of black elastic, the garters clipped to the bottom of his shirt to hold it in place. Of course Hannibal’s first concern would be the lines of his suit.

Will took a step backward to fully appreciate the sight before him, though not before he’d hooked a finger around one of the straps to pull it away from his skin, watching it snap sharply back in place with a hunger. He was utterly unabashed in the way he ran his eyes over the picture Hannibal made, taking his time to really look at him. Given how Hannibal hardened under his gaze, the man was hardly opposed to being on display in this manner, though his hands opened and closed subconsciously at his sides.

“Put your hands behind you,” Will instructed softly, the first he’d spoken since they’d crossed this line.

Obediently, though he watched Will closely, Hannibal moved his hands to cross at his back, pulling his shirt tighter across his chest. With a pleased hum, Will stepped forward again and pushed his fingers through the hair on Hannibal’s chest, sliding his hand up toward his throat to catch hold of the tie, slipping it up over his head.

Turning it in his hand, Will read the label critically. “One hundred percent silk,” he read, rubbing his thumb against the fabric to feel the texture. “This is one of your best ties, one that you spent more than thirty dollars on.” He flicked his eyes up to meet Hannibal’s his lips curving slightly in amusement. “You wore it for me.”

Hannibal ducked his head slightly in the briefest of nods and Will hummed in approval even as he held the tie by its ends so that the loop still knotted into the length dangled below. Letting his eyes trail down the length of Hannibal’s body again, he regarded him where his cock had swollen and lifted away from his body, then slipped the loop of the tie about the head to lift him even further. Pulling at the silk until he could feel the resistance, he regarded Hannibal’s arousal almost critically, admiring the way the tie displayed his flesh. As he watched, fluid leaked from the tip and Will hummed as he watched the fabric darken slightly as it absorbed the liquid.

“You’re making a mess,” Will commented idly, rotating the tie so that it rubbed against the sensitive flesh. “But it’s not much of a loss. This tie is gauche.”

Tension lit through Hannibal’s frame for the first time and Will smiled slightly, relaxing his grip on the strip of fabric to release him from it. He unknotted it fully as he regarded Hannibal, thumbing the wet spot left on the cloth in satisfaction as he waited to see whether or not he’d pushed far enough. Hannibal’s jaw was tight with disapproval at the rudeness, but after a few moments he forcibly relaxed and met Will’s gaze steadily. Not today, then…but that was fine. Will was nothing if not patient.

Stepping close enough that they could share breath between them, he ignored the press of Hannibal’s cock against his trousers, though Will did give him a disapproving look when the man bucked forward slightly at the friction. A flush in his cheeks, Hannibal breathed in through his mouth as though to try and taste him as Will slid his arms about his frame to loop the soiled tie around his wrists, knotting it once as a reminder, rather than a true bind. He barely let his lips ghost over Hannibal’s in the mockery of a kiss as he reached into the closet and felt for one of his own ties, recognizing the pattern by feel. Hannibal swayed toward him when he stepped back once more, but he caught himself quickly, his eyes darting down to the slip of fabric in Will’s grip and widening.

“Now this…this is a work of art,” Will said, smoothing the tie between his fingers. “I’ve worn it before…do you remember?”

“Our first session,” Hannibal murmured rather breathlessly and Will smiled his approval.

“You could hardly take your eyes off of it,” he mused as he let it dangle between them. “But I didn’t mind…after all, I wore it for you.”

“Will,” he breathed out, pupils blown wide as Will began to wrap the fabric around his cock, encasing him a sleeve of finest silk.

Squeezing his hand around the silk, Will did nothing to discourage Hannibal this time as his hips bucked forward. Turning his body slightly, Will stepped in close so that he could murmur against his ear, stroking the silk over him in a slow drag while Hannibal rocked his hips.

“This tie was commissioned for me when I was accepted into residency,” he said in a low purr, nosing the shell of his ear very slightly. “Not only is it the finest of silk, but the pattern is utterly unique…and you are _ruining_ it, you careless beast.”

A shuddering moan tore from Hannibal’s throat before he could stop himself, his hips jerking forward to fuck into Will’s hand in earnest now, utterly wrecking the silk that kept a barrier between their skin. Encouraging this, Will tightened his hand and moved in counterpoint to Hannibal’s need, pressing silk against where his cock leaked messily with his thumb. Desire throbbing low in him, Will ignored the press of his erection against the seams of his clothing in favor of grazing his teeth over Hannibal’s jaw.

“I want you to come,” he murmured into his skin, his breath hot. “I want you to rut into my hand and come like the animal you are.”

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal gasped, pulling at the bind on his arms before Will’s other hand was there, holding his wrists in a tight grip to steady him.

Thrusting into the heat of his hand, Hannibal shuddered and came with a low moan, his head falling against Will’s shoulder even as the man took great care in ensuring the expensive slip of fabric was thoroughly wetted by his seed. Carnality had never been a priority in Hannibal’s life, his pleasures based more in hedonistic consumption and ornamentation than in physical indulgence. Despite this, he was certain that he’d never found release so quickly in his adult life and the intensity left him slumped against Will’s slighter, but unyielding frame. Will graciously gave him a few moments to recover, pressing his lips to Hannibal’s throat intimately before he squeezed his wrists lightly and released him, setting his weight back on his own two legs.

Lifting the soiled fabric between them, Will gazed at it in satisfaction while Hannibal watched him in perfect disarray, nearly as destroyed as the priceless silk. He had left out the part where the tie had been commissioned by his mother, as mentioning ones parents while jerking off their partner tended to have an adverse effect on the mood. Will couldn’t help but wonder if that would have still been the case had he also admitted that the only other time he’d worn it outside their first session was to her funeral.

“Beautiful,” he said appreciatively and draped the tie carefully over the closet door, a banner of Hannibal’s shattered civility. Heat and hunger still throbbing in him, Will lifted a hand to cup his chin and slid his thumb over the sinuous curve of Hannibal’s lips. Will made a soft, appreciative sound when his mouth instinctively fell open to the touch, imagining all the ways in which he could find his pleasure there. Instead, he brushed his fingers over Hannibal’s cheek tenderly and withdrew.

“Get dressed,” he ordered huskily, unable to come off as totally unaffected. “Or you’ll make us late, you wanton creature.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightened very slightly and Will smiled at the thrill that went through him before he turned away, leaving the man standing there in the debauchery of his design. A good fisherman knew how to bait the lure…and Will was a very good fisherman.


End file.
